


Whetted by a Vampyre

by okapi



Category: The Vampyre - John William Polidori
Genre: Anal Fisting, Dub-con for sex while delirious, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Obsession, Vampires, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 08:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19438018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Aubrey is fatally drawn to Lord Ruthven.Polidori'sThe Vampyre. Aubrey/Lord Ruthven.





	Whetted by a Vampyre

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2019 DW Corsets and Lemons kink meme. The prompt was: _Aubrey grows not only increasingly horrified by Lord Ruthven's behaviour, but finds himself also fatally drawn to him and to his corruption, easily spiralling down a vortex of attraction and loathing._

Lord Ruthven had, from the very beginning, whetted my curiosity. I was so flattered by the invitation to join him in his travels that I observed the ruthlessness of his character, indulging the vice-ridden while viciously punishing the virtuous, with some detachment. I constantly wished to break his mystery and such persistent excitement, and frustration in my aim, strained me to snapping.   
  
I foiled his amorous scheme in Rome for the young lady’s welfare, but also out of a mad jealousy for his attention.   
  
On that second-most hated of all hated days, my wish for his attention was granted. I sought shelter from the storm in the hovel. I heard the shrieks mixed with his foul laughter. The mingled sound filled me with fear and loathing as well as a base, animal lust.   
  
I entered the hut and the darkness.  
  
But I didn’t struggle.   
  
And it wasn’t the thunder which roused me.   
  
I was hurled to the ground, but only one hand was upon my throat, the other was making quick work of the front of my trousers.   
  
A hand soon found my sex, stiff, throbbing, leaking.   
  
A mouth, whose contours I’d studied like an artist’s apprentice, covered mine and swallowed my whorish groans.   
  
The hand rubbed, and there, aside the lifeless corpse of she who’d brought me so many fairy visions, I gave myself over to the deft ministrations of my lover, her murderer.   
  
Just before the torch light of the search party reached me, I deliberately emptied my bladder, the better to disguise the wretched release with which we, that accursed creature and I, had soiled my clothing and my soul.  
  
Few enjoy the toil of the sickbed. As I lay stricken with the fever which followed in the wake of Ianthe’s death, I was left much alone with my constant attendant, Lord Ruthven. In the beginning, his hands were always beneath the bedclothes, coaxing my sex to hardness, filling my orifice with skilled fingers, fondling and pinching. At our most depraved, I found myself accepting his entire clenched fist inside me, calling it my ‘medicine’ and demanding it thrice daily. Words fail when I think of how it was, having him inside me, stretching me to bleeding while he stroked me to release.  
  
Embellished, no doubt, by natural delirium, I was wholly adrift in a tumultuous sea of arousal.  
  
But not forever.  
  
He curtailed his caresses just as I began to depend on them.  
  
I was recovering physical strength but losing all dignity, begging him, as openly as I dared, for his hands, in me, on me, anywhere. Once, I went so far as to make a juvenile show of my want, but when that dead grey eye fell upon me, I drew the linen over myself in abject shame and never repeated the act.  
  
Oh, those smiles of malicious exaltation! I knew from whence they came, and they made the bile rise in my throat as no malady had yet done. The part of me that was compromised beyond redemption paid no heed.   
  
We travelled in every direction. We hastened from place to place. And he took me as pet and plaything in every spot where such defilement could be conducted.   
  
Then he was dead, and I had sworn never to mention any of our wrongdoing.  
  
I was mad with grief and longing, and I was as elated as the good thief to have found relief from my own wickedness at last.  
  
But, alas, there is no peace unto the wicked.  
  
My dual state, the war that waged within, only served to sever me from any semblance of normalcy or sanity.   
  
They say I am mad. I do not know if I am or not, but I know, with all certainty, that Lord Ruthven smiles at mention of my affliction.   
  
He is on the other side of this door. Inside, there is an assembly, including she whom I cherish more than any living soul.   
  
She thinks she is preparing to be his wife. I know she is preparing to be his victim.   
  
My heart races. My blood pounds.   
  
I will break the door. I will burst into the room.  
  
And then?  
  
Will I halt the ceremony? Will I save my sister from her violent fate? Will I break my oath and declare before all who will listen that the man is no man at all but a fiend?   
  
Or will I tear this filthy nightdress from my emaciated form, fall to my knees and celebrate my eternal damnation by pleading for his pleasuring once more? Will I raise my haunches and spread myself and howl like a stinking bitch?   
  
Will I—oh, why did I not apply that horrid dagger to my own throat—beg once more to have my curiosity whetted?  
  
Whetted by a vampyre!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
